The End Is Where We Start From
by Hay Bails
Summary: Sherlock exhaled. He continued, softly enough that John had to lean in to hear his next words. "Oliver reminds me of myself."


The child tightened his arms tighter around the consulting detective's torso, grating against the older mans' wounds. The detective winced, but managed not to cry out. "Almost there," he panted, keeping one firm arm wrapped about the child's waist.

Sherlock Holmes, with one final burst of energy, managed to drag himself and the child up the last few steps into the shelter of 221B Baker Street.

"John-" he ground out, flashes of darkness playing out in his vision. "John, take… take Oliver."

A weight was lifted from his hip. He could only imagine that John had done as he said. His vision was more or less gone now.

"Thank you," he breathed, and promptly passed out.

* * *

There had been an explosion.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He sat up quickly, and immediately regretted it. A cry of pain escaped his lips, and he hung his head and closed his eyes once more, drawing in quick, shallow breaths.

Christ, but his back hurt.

There had been an explosion. Yes.

He didn't want to open his eyes just yet. He obviously wasn't in any immediate danger, if he wasn't dead yet. And he was sitting on something soft. There was no reason to fear that he would be injured further.

Gingerly, he began to assess his wounds. His back and shoulders seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage. What he could reach, he examined with gentle brushes of his fingertips. Much of his torso appeared to have been bandaged, and expertly at that.

Good. He was probably in John's care, then.

He winced, sitting up a bit further.

"John?" he croaked.

A moment passed. There was a twinge of fear. Where was John?

And then- "You're awake. How do you feel?"

Sherlock relaxed, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He opened his eyes.

"I've been better."

John nodded, face serious.

"You almost died, Sherlock."

"It _is_ in the job description."

John sighed, and took the few necessary steps toward the bed to close the gap between them. He hesitated before placing a gentle hand on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock looked up in surprise, but did not say anything. He leaned into John's touch, savoring the cool fingers on his skin.

"Did I save them? All of them?"

John sighed.

"You did your best, Sherlock."

The words were like iron bars clanging all around him. _You did your best._

There had been fifty children trapped in that orphanage when the bomb started ticking. Sherlock shuddered involuntarily.

"How many?" he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

John hesitated.

"How _many_, John?"

"Twenty-three."

The silence was palpable.

He had only saved twenty-seven of those fifty children. Twenty-seven survivors.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

"You did, though," John said suddenly. "You did do your best. And you saved more than Lestrade could have on his own." Sherlock felt John's thumb trace a small circle on his cheek. He let out a shuddering breath.

"What about Oliver?" he asked, eager to divert his attention from those lost souls.

"Oliver is fine," John said. "Upstairs, asleep in my bed."

Sherlock hummed a low note.

"Good. That's… good."

"Why did you bring him here?"

An angry glint flashed in Sherlock's eyes for the first time.

"Because we'll take better care of him than those idiots at the Yard."

John looked taken aback.

"Surely you don't intend to keep him?"

Sherlock sighed. "I… I don't know. I just knew… he needed someone to watch over him. For now."

John opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. He brushed his fingers fondly over Sherlock's cheek one last time before pulling his hand away.

"He can stay as long as he needs to," he decided, nodding to Sherlock.

"Of course he can. He doesn't have anywhere else to go, now that the horrid orphanage is blown to bits." Sherlock's voice was devoid of the emotion that should have accompanied that statement.

John sighed.

"Look. Sherlock. It wasn't your fault. There was really nothing more you could have done."

Sherlock hung his head, unresponsive. Every bone of his body seemed to disagree with John's assessment.

"I mean it."

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound.

"I know you don't believe me. But you have to look at this objectively."

"I look at _everything_ objectively, John. It's my job."

"Right. All I know is there's a child sleeping safely upstairs who would otherwise be dead right now. You did that, Sherlock."

"Are you saying I should be proud?" Sherlock looked up, a dreadful expression on his face. "That I should be happy about playing god back there? That I chose the right child to save from that explosion?"

"No. I'm saying that you saved _a_ child." John moved to sit on the bed next to Sherlock. His shoulder brushed Sherlock's. Sherlock winced. "Sorry, sorry," John said, adjusting to give his injured flatmate some space. Once they were settled, he spoke once more. "Have you ever heard the story of the man and the starfish?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't listen to _stories,_" he said, a bit more harshly than was strictly necessary.

John continued, unperturbed. "As I recall, it runs something like this. A man was walking down the beach, picking up the starfish that the waves had washed onto the shore and throwing them back into the water. Another man came up and asked why he was saving the few starfish he could, when there were literally hundreds of other starfish that he couldn't possibly save. It was fairly impossible to make any noticeable difference in the sheer number of beached starfish. He asked why the man didn't just give up. And the man replied that it made a difference for every one starfish he _did_ save." John paused. "Am I helping at all?"

Sherlock sighed. He stared at the far wall for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. With a huff of breath, he scooted himself to the edge of the bed. He winced, and stood shakily. John immediately leapt up to join him.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"Upstairs."

"Really, Sherlock," John said. "You think you're going to get very far in your state?"

Sherlock, who had not taken even one step forward, silently conceded the point.

"So what is it? You want… you want to check on him?"

"Yes."

John was impressed by the determination in the detective's eyes.

"Would you like me to just bring him down here?"

Sherlock looked shocked for a split second, as if that idea hadn't even crossed his mind. John imagined that was a rare occurrence. He smirked.

"Um," Sherlock said eloquently.

"You lay back down, and I'll go fetch Oliver." John's tone, though soft, brooked no argument.

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, as if to prove something by standing up, before sitting heavily upon the mattress once more. He nodded, and John left the room.

Footsteps reverberated around the flat for a few moments, making their way up the stairs. The low tones of John's voice could be heard echoing comfortingly back down into Sherlock's bedroom. Another moment passed, and the same steps made their way back down.

Sherlock frowned. There was only one set of footsteps. Which meant, obviously, that John had deemed Oliver too injured to be moved, or too exhausted, or-

Or there was only one set of footsteps to be heard between the two of them.

The door to Sherlock's bedroom creaked open, and John entered, carrying a half-asleep child upon his hip.

Sherlock visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders and neck dissipating.

"Oliver," he whispered quietly. Reverently.

"He's fine, Sherlock."

The child buried himself deeper in John's jumper.

Sherlock's eyes took him in greedily. Oliver was small, even for a six-year-old. His straight black hair fell across his forehead haphazardly. A cowlick graced the back of his head. John had disposed of his grubby clothing from the night before, and Oliver now sported a much-too-large jumper that John himself rarely wore.

He yawned, and looked up at Sherlock.

"Mister John is taking care of me," he said sleepily. "Is Mister John taking care of you, too?"

Sherlock caught his breath, and nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, John takes care of me."

"That's good. Can I go sit with Sh'lock, Mister John?"

John gave a small smile, and set the child down gently. He watched as the child plopped himself on the bed beside Sherlock.

"Are you hurt, Sh'lock?"

"I… no, Oliver. I'm fine," he replied, giving the child a reassuring smile that he didn't quite feel.

"You're covered in plasters," Oliver said doubtfully. He placed an experimental hand upon Sherlock's chest, which was indeed wrapped full around in a bandage.

"Ah, yes. Don't worry about me, Oliver. I will heal."

Oliver looked at him skeptically. "Mmkay," he said. "Sh'lock?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to all my friends?"

Sherlock drew in a breath. "I… they…" He shook his head slightly.

John noticed his unease, and quickly moved to place his hand on Sherlock's forearm. "Some of them are at Scotland Yard, Oliver," he said, coming to the rescue. "They're being watched over by Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sherlock shot him a thankful look.

Oliver seemed satisfied with this. "Wow. Detective Inspector," he said, tasting the words. "He sounds important." There was a beat. "Is Sherlock a Detective Inspector?"

John and Sherlock shared a wry grin. "Well… Sherlock is something called a Consulting Detective."

"Cor," whispered Oliver quietly. "What's he do, then?"

John chuckled. "You want to explain, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat up a little straighter. "I put the police in their place when they are wrong, as they so often are."

John rolled his eyes. "The police come to him for advice when they need help solving a case."

Oliver looked back and forth between them.

"So he catches the bad guys?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," John said simply. "Does a very good job too, I might add."

Sherlock rolled his own eyes in turn.

Oliver nodded, satisfied. He grabbed a fistful of blanket in his hand, playing idly with it. "So why am I here and not with my friends?"

"We-"

"Wanted to make sure you were safe," Sherlock cut in, eyes blazing.

"Yes, that," John said, glaring at Sherlock for his interruption.

"You want to keep me safe?"

Sherlock nodded.

Abruptly, a small pair of arms found themselves wrapped around the consulting detective's middle. Sherlock winced, but when John moved to pull the child from him, he held a hand up.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, reassuring both John and the child. "It's all -" he gingerly moved the child's hands from his back to his sides "- fine." Hesitantly, he wrapped his own arms around the child's tiny shoulders.

Oliver sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and resting his head upon Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock held the child delicately, more gently than John would have thought possible. A minute or so passed in silence. Oliver's breathing evened out as he drifted into sleep.

Then, without warning, a sob escaped Sherlock's body, then two, then three.

"Whoa! Hey! Easy, Sherlock, easy," John murmured, startled by his flatmate's sudden tears. He moved his hand comfortingly up and down Sherlock's arm, too afraid to chance touching his shoulders.

Sherlock choked on another sob, caressing the child's hair softly.

John looked at him worriedly.

"You sh-should take Oliver up-stairs," Sherlock hiccoughed.

John nodded once, and as lightly as he could, took the child from Sherlock. "I'll be right back."

"Y-yes, John," Sherlock said. He curled around himself as best he could, holding in more sobs. He listened as the footsteps padded upstairs. He listened as the footsteps padded downstairs.

John moved back into Sherlock's bedroom. He took in the state of his bedraggled flatmate from the doorway. Sherlock had pulled his legs in close to his chest, his forehead resting on his left knee.

"I'm sorry, John," he breathed.

"No reason to be sorry," John replied. "He's an awfully heavy sleeper," he remarked. He moved to the bed and sat once more beside his friend. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

Sherlock drew in a ragged breath and looked up at John. His eyes were red. "It was nothing, John."

John gave him a look.

"Truly, John," Sherlock said. He had managed to pull himself together, more or less. "There is a mechanism built in to the human body. One does not cry out of sadness or sentimentality. One only cries when one is overwhelmed. I was merely… overwhelmed."

"By what?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Oh, come on, Mister-I'm-a-genius-and-know-everything. What brought this all on?"

Sherlock looked dully at John.

"The fact that twenty-three deaths could have been prevented isn't enough of a catalyst for you?"

"You know, I hate to sound cruel, but… no. Not for you, Sherlock Holmes. You were fine when we had _that_ particular discussion."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. "You want the real reason why I care? The real reason why this particular child is taking up residence at 221B Baker Street instead of the shelter the Yard has provided?" Sherlock exhaled. He continued, softly enough that John had to lean in to hear his next words.

"Oliver reminds me of myself."


End file.
